had motored over to Round Hill, and would return by moonlight.
As yet he had not visited the house. It was late and he wanted his dinner. He decided to come back later. When the dark had fallen, he would hold a tryst with memory. If Sampson was about, or Delia, they would let him in, and he would sit by the Blue Window, and look off over the Bay.
He rode on, therefore, to Christopher's. The big man welcomed him heartily, and set a table out of doors for him. The Bay had ruffles of silver across its blue, and the gulls were silver. Christopher's garden was full of old-fashioned flowers—larkspur, bleeding hearts, lady-slipper. Columbus, stretched flat on a green bench chattered his teeth at a humming-bird poised above the porch boxes of petunias.
There were crabs for dinner, devilled in their red shells. "We are catching such big ones," Christopher said, "rusty and sweet as a nut."
Crispin ate with an appetite. "Not so many people around," he said.
"No. The fall is my great season, when the hunting begins. Winslow was out here the other day to talk about it. Wants to get his sink-box license before he goes over to join the Round Hill party in Paris. There won't be a day after he comes back that he and Carew won't be out with their guns. Some men are natural-born hunters. Winslow's one. He'll follow anything until he gets it, whether it's a bird, or a business deal, or a woman. He wanted Sally Hulburt, and he got her, more's the pity."
Crispin nodded. "She's too good for him."
